She heard the sound of the door opening a little way down the terrace—of a foot upon the flagged path. She did not raise her head, but she knew that he was there—only a few yards away from her.
Through the silence there came the cawing of rooks far away among the trees of the park.
Then all at once she heard his sudden exclamation of surprise. He had not seen her at first; he saw her now.
“Dio mio! ella è qui!”
Still she did not turn her head toward him. More than a minute had passed before she heard his slow steps as he approached her. He was beside her for quite as long before he spoke.
“I did not know that you were here,” he said in a low voice. “But I am glad. It is but right that I should say good-bye to you alone.”
Then she looked up.
“Why—why—why?” she cried almost piteously. “Why should you say good-bye? What has made the change in you?”
“It is not I who have changed: it is you,” said he. “I loved the sweet, modest, untarnished jewel of a girl—a pearl hidden away from the sight of men in dim sea-cave—a violet—ah, I told you how I loved the violet that hides itself from every eye—that was what you were when I loved you, and I hoped to return to your side and find you the same. Well, I return and—ah, where is the exquisite shrinking one that I looked for? Gone—gone—gone for ever, and in her place I find one whose name is in every mouth—not a soft, gentle girl, but a woman who has put her heart into a book—Dio mio! A woman who puts her heart into a book is like a woman who disrobes in a public place—worse—worse—she exposes a heart that should be sacred—feelings that it would be a gross indelicacy to exhibit to the eyes of man!”